Freaks of Greenfield High

Freaks of Greenfield High (Chapter 8)

Freaks of Greenfield High

By Maree Anderson

Chapter Eight

Shit!

The man known to his team as Michael White, whacked his fist on his desktop. Papers fluttered into the air and then settled. Luckily there was no one to witness his lack of control. The building was deserted, the only light source in the darkened office the greenish-hued glow of his laptop's screen. It illuminated his face, throwing gargoyle shadows up the bland gray walls.

He couldn't believe his luck. First, the original clip he'd saved to his hard drive had been corrupted by a very sneaky little virus before he could back it up, and now this?

A masked Robin capered across his screen. She'd replaced the original Boy Wonder Left Wondering clip with one featuring another Boy Wonder—namely some guy who'd played Robin in the Batman TV series back the '60s.

Michael shook his head and leaned back in his chair. His life might be going down the toilet right now, but at least he didn't have to dress in a red top and green shorts with matching elf boots, and to top it all off, a shiny gold cape, like that poor bastard.

He scowled at Robin and closed his laptop. His fingers drummed the desktop as he considered his options.

His very limited options.

When the uploaded video had first been flagged by his tracking program, and he'd viewed the clip, he'd fist-punched the air. He knew exactly where she was. He could send in an extraction team, and it would all be over. He could say goodbye to chasing rumors and hearsay from one hick town to another. Hell, he might even be able to embrace his old life again, pick up where he'd left off. If his old life would still have him.

But it appeared the kid had been one step ahead of him—again. While he'd been imagining what his life would be like when this nightmare was over, she had been busy covering her tracks. It was a given she would have decrypted his IP address and realized she'd been compromised. It wouldn't be long before she was on the move—again. Or at the very least, planning another little surprise for anyone who dared come after her.

Michael considered keeping this latest development to himself. After all, until he got a hold of the original clip again, he had no hard evidence. But—

He huffed a sigh, grabbed his cell phone from the desktop and made the call.

The instant it connected, he spoke without waiting for acknowledgement. "I got a hit on the kid, sir. And—"

"You mean it. You'd do well to remember it isn't human, Mr. White."

Michael winced at the icy-cold tone. "Yes, sir. I got a hit on the cyborg."

"How?"

"A video clip uploaded to a social networking site."

"Send it to me now."

"She's corrupted the source file, and replaced the original clip on the site with another one. She's covering her tracks."

The silence on the end of the line commanded more information. Immediately.

"I'm working on it, sir."

More silence.

A single droplet of sweat rolled down his face, seeping into his shirt collar. "I need more time."

"Call me in the morning when you have something new to report."

"Yes, sir." Michael found himself speaking into the discordant beeping of an already disconnected line.

His employer was not known for his patience, or for anything less than substantiated facts. Which was why Michael had neglected to mention he knew where she was hiding.

Chances of her still being there were slim, he told himself, and—

God. He was torn. He wanted this over but he'd give anything in the world for the endgame to take place somewhere else. And, right now, he was praying she'd act true to type and up-stakes and vanish.

He slumped back in his chair and blotted his forehead with his sleeve. The kid—the cyborg—was good. Really good. So good, that even after five years of painstaking investigation, Michael still hadn't untangled the maze of offshore accounts that had absorbed Alexander Durham's considerable wealth after his death.

"They", the faceless, nameless people who comprised the clandestine corporation Michael worked for, had been playing a waiting game for years, hoping Durham's protégé would slip up and make a mistake. Finally she had, by allowing herself to be caught on video. But Michael wanted—needed—to be certain of all the facts before he sent in the extraction team. He couldn't risk civilians being caught up in the extraction. Especially not one of the civilians he'd seen in that clip.

If he could have avoided making that call, delayed a bit longer....

No. He'd done the right thing. His employer would find out if Michael sat on the information. He always found out.

Michael rubbed his eyes, rotated his shoulders and flexed his fingers. Regardless of what might prove to be a personal stake in this operation, he had a job to do. And if he valued his continuing health and wellbeing—and the continued health and wellbeing of his estranged family—the deadline he'd been given must be adhered to.

He would think of something.

He always did.

~*~

Copyright 2011 Maree Anderson

www.mareeanderson.com